Chapter 25
CHAPTER 25
Erika
I sipped my coffee, the bitter warmth doing little to chase away the cold knot in my stomach. Across the table, Morgan stared at me, her eyes sharp with disbelief.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” she demanded, her voice rising as she leaned closer, practically spilling her mimosa.
I flinched but tried to keep my tone steady. “Why is it so far-fetched?” I asked, setting my cup down with a slight tremble in my hand.
“Because Foster is an asshole, Erika.” She pushed her plate away, the scrape of porcelain loud against the table. “What the hell happened to you while I was away?”
“Nothing. Everything.” I murmured, feeling the weight of my confusion settle deeper into my chest. “I’m scared, Morgan.”
Her expression softened as she reached across the table, her hand warm as it covered mine. “Why are you scared?” she asked gently, her thumb brushing over my knuckles.
“Two men want me, but I guess it’s down to one since I fucked it up with Lincoln,” I confessed, my voice breaking. “He hates me.”
Morgan’s brow furrowed. “He doesn’t hate you.”
“I hurt him,” I whispered, my gaze dropping to the table. “I told him I kissed Foster, and I haven’t heard from him in days. Isn’t it obvious?”
Morgan hesitated, her eyes searching mine before she sighed. “Do you want me to talk to Michael about Lincoln?”
My head shot up, and I shook it quickly. “As much as I’d appreciate that, I don’t want to put you in jeopardy.”
“Jeopardy?” She frowned, pulling her hand back as she leaned away from me. “How?”
“Michael loves you, and I know you love him,” I said softly, watching as her expression tightened.
Morgan recoiled slightly, her eyes narrowing. “I don’t love him. I’m married,” she snapped, her tone defensive.
“That doesn’t mean you can’t love someone else,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.
“It’s a moot point,” she said, her tone clipped as she took a deep breath. “Let’s get back to you.”
I exhaled shakily, my nerves fraying at the edges. “I’m a mess, Morgan. What do I do?”
“Why would you even think about going back to Foster?” she asked, her voice rising again as she gestured wildly. “He fucked up your head and broke off the engagement. He made a bad situation worse.”
“I told him that,” I replied, feeling the familiar sting of old wounds. “He said he was young and clueless back then.”
Morgan scoffed, rolling her eyes. “He wasn’t clueless. He was rich and looking to get as much pussy as he could. Foster didn’t want to be chained down at such a young age.”
I swallowed hard, memories of the past flashing in my mind. “You tried to warn me back then.”
“Yeah, I did,” she said, her voice softening. “Because I loved you. I still do. You’re my best friend, and I’ll do anything for you.” She leaned in closer, her eyes serious. “That’s why I’m going to put my cards on the table.”
“Cards?” I asked, my brow furrowing in confusion.
“Foster hasn’t changed,” she said firmly, her gaze unwavering. “He just wants what he wants.”
I bit my lip, my heart racing. “He wants to take me to Italy.”
Morgan’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Don’t get caught up in his bullshit,” she warned, shaking her head. “I might be going out on a limb, but I think you’re making a huge mistake by giving him any hope.”
Without a word, I reached into my purse, pulling out the small black box Foster had sent to my apartment two days ago. I slid it across the table, my hand trembling slightly.
“Open it,” I said, my voice sounding distant to my own ears.
Morgan’s eyes flickered with a mix of curiosity and dread as she dropped her fork into her endive salad. She hesitated for a moment before flipping open the box. Her jaw dropped when she saw the five-carat emerald-cut engagement ring nestled inside, the platinum setting glinting in the sunlight.
“He wants to marry me,” I said, the words feeling unreal as they left my lips.
Morgan’s gaze snapped back to mine, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Did you sleep with him?”
I shook my head, feeling the burn of unshed tears. “No. I wanted to, but I didn’t.”
“You can’t,” she pleaded, her eyes wide with concern. “Foster is doing what he always does. He’ll shower you with gifts and make promises, then break your heart.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I admitted, my voice cracking under the weight of my emotions.
Morgan’s gaze softened, her eyes filled with sympathy. “Do you love Lincoln?”
“Very much,” I whispered, the admission causing a lump to form in my throat.
“Then go to him and explain,” she urged, squeezing my hand. “Foster will break your heart.”
“How do you know that?” I asked, my voice trembling.
“Because I know Foster,” she replied, her tone deadly serious. “He almost ruined our friendship. I tried to tell you, and now you want to go back to him?” Morgan shook her head, her frustration evident as she grabbed her mimosa and took a deep gulp. She quickly refilled her glass from the small pitcher on the table, her movements sharp and decisive.
“Does that mean if I go back to him, we’re not friends?” I asked, my voice barely audible as I braced myself for her response.
Morgan’s expression softened, and she reached out to touch my hand again. “I would never end our friendship because of him, but you changed when you were with him,” she said gently. “You weren’t the strong-willed woman I knew. He always made you weak. I didn’t see that with Lincoln. He let you be who you are. Don’t let Foster Black’s wealth seduce you.”
“It’s not,” I murmured, feeling the weight of her words settle in.
Morgan closed the ring box with a snap and slid it back to me, the tension between us thick and palpable. The rest of our meal passed in awkward silence, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air. I knew Morgan well enough to recognize when she was upset—she retreated into herself, her usual warmth replaced with a distant coolness. She gave me a tight hug when we parted, promising to call later, but the unease lingered between us.
As I hurried to catch a cab, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw Lincoln’s name flash on the screen. My heart skipped a beat as I stared at it, my thumb hovering over the answer button and then it silenced. It had been two weeks since we last spoke, and I desperately wanted to hear his voice. I wiped the sweat from my upper lip and took a deep breath before hitting his contact. The phone rang five times before he finally picked up.
“Erika,” Lincoln’s voice came through in a breathy whisper, full of hesitation and something I couldn’t quite place.
“Lincoln… you called?” My heart leaped at the sound of his voice, even though a part of me dreaded what might come next.
“I didn’t mean to. It was an accident,” he replied, his tone flat and devoid of the warmth I’d once known.
My heart shattered, the pieces scattering like glass. In that moment, everything became painfully clear—I realized he was the one I truly wanted. Not the glitz and glamour that Foster could offer, not the comfort of the old times that felt so right when things were good. Deep down, I knew that being with Foster would only lead to heartbreak. It might not happen next month or next year, but it would be ugly. Foster would never change. Underneath all his layers, he was still the same man who had hurt me years ago.
I swallowed hard, struggling to keep my voice steady as I asked, “How was it an accident?”
“I meant to call someone else,” Lincoln said, his words clipped. “I hit the wrong contact, which was yours.”
The truth behind his words hit me like a punch to the gut. My breath caught in my throat as I fought back tears. “Lincoln.” His name came out in a strangled whisper, my voice barely holding together. “I love you.”
There was a long pause, and I could hear him breathing on the other end. When he finally spoke, his voice was cold, each word cutting deep. “It’s too late, Erika. You made your choice. You broke my heart, and I won’t give you another chance. Goodbye, Erika.”
The line went dead with a final click, the sound echoing in my ears like the slamming of a door. It was over.
A month had passed since I last heard Lincoln’s voice, each day feeling heavier than the one before. I’d severed all ties with Foster, despite his desperate attempts to win me back. My heart knew that being with him would only deepen the wounds I’d spent so long trying to heal. The rumors that he was dating a supermodel to soothe his bruised ego didn’t surprise me.
When I received an invitation to a charity event hosted by the Elliott family, I knew I couldn’t resist. I needed to see Lincoln again, even if he hated me. My date was Grant Barrington, COO of The Barrington Group, a man I’d met months ago at a party. There was nothing romantic between us; Grant was the kind of man who would make a perfect husband—for someone else.
I spent the entire day preparing for the event, nerves tangling with excitement. The emerald green satin dress I chose was sleeveless with a plunging neckline and a daring slit up my left thigh. I paired it with black patent heels that added five inches to my height. My hair was styled in a classic chignon, and I went heavy on the makeup, even though Lincoln preferred me natural. The dress wasn’t just a fashion statement—it was a message. I wanted to remind Lincoln of what we once had, of how he used to bury his face between my breasts, breathing me in like I was his only source of air.
When Grant arrived at my door just before seven, he greeted me with a bouquet of red roses. His turquoise eyes sparkled as he smiled, the corners crinkling in that charming way of his. Dressed in a black tuxedo, his chestnut hair combed neatly to the side, he looked every bit the gentleman.
“For you,” he said, offering the roses with a warm smile.
I felt a blush rise to my cheeks. “I thought this date was platonic?”
“It is,” he assured me, “but I’m still a gentleman. And I have to say, you look absolutely stunning. That dress is fantastic.”
“Thank you,” I replied, taking the roses from him and stepping aside so he could enter my apartment. “Let me put these in water, and we can head out.”
As I arranged the flowers in a vase, my mind drifted to Lincoln. I didn’t know how he would react when he saw me, or if he’d even care. But as I placed the roses on my kitchen counter, I couldn’t shake the hope that maybe, just maybe, this night would change everything.
When Grant and I arrived at The Wyatt, my gaze immediately began darting around the opulent room, searching for Lincoln amidst the sea of guests. I gripped Grant’s arm as we navigated through the crowd, our progress slow as we stopped to exchange pleasantries. The anticipation gnawed at me, making my heart sink further with every passing minute, especially as dinner time approached.
The grand ballroom was as stunning as ever, illuminated by a dozen crystal chandeliers that cast a soft, shimmering light over the room. Black and gold drapes adorned the walls, complementing the pristine linen tablecloths. A podium at the front was flanked by large flat-screen televisions, broadcasting a live feed of the event.
I sipped my second glass of champagne and barely touched my pear and baby greens salad when the first course was served. Then, as if in slow motion, Lincoln entered the room. My breath caught when I saw him with a petite woman at his side. Her sleek black hair and delicate features made her attractive, but she lacked the striking presence I remembered. An intense wave of jealousy surged through me as Lincoln guided her to their table—just two tables away from ours. Grant was oblivious, engrossed in a conversation with a fellow real estate developer.
I jabbed at a pear in my salad, chewing it slowly as my attention remained fixed on Lincoln and his date. I scrutinized every interaction, every subtle gesture. Was this woman a new girlfriend, or had Lincoln returned to his old patterns? Though he had his hand resting lightly on the back of her chair, he wasn’t touching her in the intimate way he used to with me.
My focus was so intense that it took me a moment to realize Lincoln’s gaze had shifted to me. His expression was a mix of pain and something else I couldn’t quite place. I hastily looked down at my plate, feeling the weight of his stare even as I tried to ignore it. I cleared my throat, interrupting Grant's conversation.
“Are you okay?” Grant asked, his concern evident as he noticed my flushed face.
“I must have put too much pepper in the salad,” I fibbed. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to use the bathroom.”
“Do you want me to go with you?” Grant offered, a hint of playful concern in his voice.
I smiled, trying to keep the conversation light. “I doubt the other women would appreciate your company in there.”
Grant’s smirk widened. “That’s not what I meant.” He stroked my arm briefly before I stood and hurried out of the ballroom.
As I made my way through the crowded space, I felt a mix of relief and anxiety wash over me. The open lobby was a welcome escape from the bustling event. I took a deep breath, savoring the fresh air, but my moment of solace was abruptly interrupted when a firm grip closed around my arm.
I turned sharply, my heart racing. The anger that replaced my initial fear was palpable as I saw Lincoln’s intense gaze. “Don’t touch me,” I hissed.
“Come with me and don’t argue,” he commanded, his voice low and urgent.
“Let me go. You have no right,” I snapped back, struggling against his hold.
“You owe me an explanation,” Lincoln said, his grip tightening painfully on my upper arm. Despite the discomfort, I didn’t resist further. His scent was intoxicating, a reminder of what we once shared, and my body ached with the desire to be close to him again.
He guided me to a fire stairwell, pushing open the heavy steel door. The cool, stark stairwell felt like a world apart from the elegance of the ballroom. Lincoln pressed me gently but firmly against the wall, his eyes burning with an intensity that made my pulse quicken.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“I was invited,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Is Grant Barrington your new boyfriend? What happened to Foster Black?”
“I don’t want Foster,” I said quickly, feeling a pang of frustration.
Lincoln’s jaw clenched, the muscle bulging under his skin. “You’ve already moved on?”
The question hung in the air, charged with unresolved emotions. As I stared at him, the silence between us crackled with the weight of what could have been and what still might be.
“What business is it of yours?” I shot back, trying to mask the vulnerability in my voice.
“This is my family’s charity,” Lincoln said, his voice taut with frustration. “You can’t just barge in and create problems.”
“Screw you. You can’t tell me what to do. We’re not together anymore,” I snapped, my anger and sadness mixing in a volatile cocktail.
“Is that what you want, Erika?” Lincoln’s voice dropped to a rough whisper, his face dangerously close to mine.
“Huh?”
“You want me to screw you?” His breath was warm against my lips, making my pulse race.
“I didn’t say that,” I protested, though my resolve was crumbling.
“Who do you want?” Lincoln’s gaze locked onto mine, his eyes pleading for an answer.
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes despite my effort to hold them back. When they finally escaped, streaking down my cheeks, Lincoln’s expression shifted from anger to horror. He fumbled in his tuxedo pocket and pulled out a handkerchief.
“Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice now laced with regret.
I took the handkerchief and dabbed at my eyes, trying to keep my mascara from smudging. “You, Lincoln. I want you,” I sobbed. “I want this whole shitty nightmare to be over with. My heart can’t stand to be away from you.”
“And what about your head?” Lincoln asked, his brow furrowing in concern.
“Everything,” I choked out. “My heart, body, and soul. I love you.”
“Tell Grant you’re sick and that you’re leaving,” Lincoln urged.
“I can’t do that,” I said, shaking my head. “He’ll want to go with me.”
“Tell him you already left,” Lincoln insisted.
“And what about you?” I asked, my voice wavering.
“I’ll be going with you. I want you to come home with me,” Lincoln said, his voice firm yet tender.
His words made me cry even harder, tears flowing freely as the door to the stairwell creaked open. A security guard in a gray uniform appeared, his face etched with concern.
“Is there a problem here?” he asked. “Do you need assistance, miss?”
“No, thank you,” Lincoln said quickly. “My fiancée isn’t feeling well.”
The guard raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. He removed his cap and ran his hand through his short blond hair. “You shouldn’t be in the stairwell. It’s for emergencies.” He held the door open, gesturing for us to return to the hallway.
“I need to use the restroom,” I said to Lincoln, my voice strained as I tried to regain composure.
“Do you want me to wait for you here or in the lobby?” Lincoln asked, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Here. I want you to take me home,” I replied, desperate for his presence.
“As long as everything is all right,” the guard said, stepping aside.
“Go, sweetheart,” Lincoln urged, ignoring the guard’s presence. “I’ll wait for you.”
He gave me a gentle push toward the women’s bathroom. I moved toward it with heavy steps, while Lincoln leaned against the wall, his gaze fixed on me with a mix of longing and determination. The weight of our unresolved feelings hung heavily in the air, a palpable tension that promised either reconciliation or an even deeper heartbreak.